


Always A Beginning

by orphan_account



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Canon Death, Injury, M/M, pre rogue one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-07
Updated: 2017-03-07
Packaged: 2018-09-30 13:57:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10164452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “Is that what you were searching for?” he asks quietly.Baze chuckles in spite of himself, in spite of his racing heart and pain in his arm.  He holds Chirrut close and kisses him once, twice, three times in quick succession.  “Partly,” he admits.  “Perhaps more.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Today is meh, so I wanted some spiritassassin hurt/comfort.

By the time he closes his eyes for the last time in this life, he’s got many scars, in so many places he’s lost count. Chirrut knows them, of course. Knows every dip, every groove of his body. He’s spent years meticulously mapping out every inch of his body under the palms of his hands.

But here, in the quiet moment of a beginning, when Chirrut knew little more than his voice, the touch of his hand, the candour of his words, the sound of his gait, they’re not quite there yet. They’re young and things are becoming dangerous. Baze’s faith, which had always been on shaky grounds, is wavering.

Watching the galaxy crumble to bits under the oppressive regime that threatens to burn them all to ash well…

It would shake any man. Chirrut feels it, whether or not he admits it. His faith is the same, he just has a stronger will than the other guardian.

There was an attack—insurgents looking for Kyber crystals for the taking. They’d been able to protect the temple this time. Neither one of them knows how long it will last, how far their strength and faith will go.

And it doesn’t help, Baze lying injured in Chirrut’s bed. A blaster to the shoulder, a graze, but Baze had fought on and now infection had set in. Feverish and in pain, he sips broth and allows Chirrut to bathe his head in cool water and hopes that the bacta they managed to scrounge up will do the trick.

Chirrut has faith where Baze does not always.

“Am I going to die?” He would never ask such a thing in his right mind, but in the throes of fever, fear sets in. He’s not ready to die, not ready to leave. At least not with so much unfinished business. His hand wanders out, seeking, finds Chirrut’s and grips it. “Don’t let me.”

“It’s far from your time. I cannot change what the force wills,” Chirrut tells him, letting his thumb drift across callused knuckles. “But I can see as far as it allows me, and I can tell you with certainty, you will not die now. You will not die before me.”

“I want to,” Baze admits. His voice is hoarse and dry, and Chirrut puts a cup to his lips. He drinks, and coughs a little, but his fever is starting to fade. His words keep coming though. It was too close this time and he thinks he can’t bear to keep this secret. Chirrut knows—of course he knows, but he’s waited all this time for Baze to say it. “I don’t want to live a single second without you.”

“Some things cannot be helped,” Chirrut tells him, strokes his hair back away from his face. It used to be kept short, shorn like the other guardians, but as he loses his faith for such things, he loses his desire to keep up on the ceremony. Chirrut most certainly doesn’t hate it as his fingers drift through silky locks. Eventually it’ll curl, it’ll be put into plaits and kept like a warrior, like a mercenary. But for now, Baze looks as young as he is, and softer than he feels. 

Chirrut starts when a hand touched his face. Baze’s palm is rougher than his own, and bigger. His thumb brushes over Chirrut’s eyebrow, down, pressing to the corner of his left eye. “Tell me how it happened. I never asked. I have always wondered.”

Chirrut smiles, and cups his hand round Baze’s, but doesn’t draw the palm away. He leans into it. “It was an illness. Infection. I was days old, born too young. It happened in the days my mother was not sure whether I would live or die.”

Baze trembles at the thought, because what was any world in any system if Chirrut did not exist. “You have never seen anything.”

“I see some,” Chirrut says. “Here,” he points to the side of his eye, at the whites. “And here,” he points to the other side. “It lets light in. The rest is scarring, too deep for medical intervention. It does not matter.”

“No,” Baze muses. His head is starting to clear, which means he’s more profoundly aware of the pain. He glances at the bandages and feels the tingle of healing. It’ll scar. One of many, he thinks. He turns his face back to Chirrut and realises he’s still holding the other man’s cheek. For once, he doesn’t pull away. For once, he curls his body toward Chirrut and lets himself be close, lets himself feel close. “I’m getting better.”

Chirrut laughs very softly, nodding against Baze’s palm. “Yes. You are.”

“When this is over,” he says.

“It will not be over. Not in our lifetime,” Chirrut interrupts. When Baze frowns, Chirrut sighs and says, “I know what it is you wish to say, and I wish to hear it. But honestly. Not clouded in vague ideas of freedom and peace. What you want—what we might have, it’s there. But not the way you wish it. Have me honestly, Baze. In that way, I’m yours.”

“And you don’t think it’s wrong? Attachments?”

Chirrut laughs. “We are no Jedi, my friend. All is as the force wills it.”

Baze leans up, and hisses in pain but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop until he has two hands on Chirrut’s cheeks, holding him firm but kind, thumbs brushing his cheekbones. “Does it will this?”

“Yes,” Chirrut breathes. “It does.”

Baze leans his head in close, almost to touch, stopping just short to let Chirrut decide for them both. Baze can no longer feel the force, not in the way he used to. He leaves that to the other guardian now. There will be a time he leaves, to fight and receive more injuries, more scars. More life than he ever meant to live, more wars than he ever meant to fight. But he knew his future as well as Chirrut, whether or not he wanted to accept it.

For now, there is this.

For now, there is Chirrut touching him on the shoulder, gentle fingers unfailing as they draw him in. Lips are chapped, but sweet and careful as they dance across his own. It is too much and not enough, and Baze finds himself catching his breath as Chirrut pulls away, pressing their foreheads together.

“Is that what you were searching for?” he asks quietly.

Baze chuckles in spite of himself, in spite of his racing heart and pain in his arm. He holds Chirrut close and kisses him once, twice, three times in quick succession. “Partly,” he admits. “Perhaps more.”

“There is time,” Chirrut tells him, and allows Baze to pull him to the bed, to hold him as the pain sets in deeper and he craves sleep so the time can pass without him feeling it so much. Warm hands are on his own, drawing lines across his palm, learning him in new ways. Chirrut begins his careful exploration which will take years, from this moment on. But he’s allowed now. Baze allows this touch, invites it, never wishes to live without it.

The moments, in the end, where Baze exists without Chirrut are both short, and eternal. There is nothing but welcome in the seconds he takes to fall to the ground, Chirrut the last thing he sees. There will be more touches wherever he goes after this. It is another certainty he’s lived with for those years and years.

It’s not the end.

It was never the end.

They’re always beginnings.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [ualmostshotme](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/ualmostshotme) if you want to submit a prompt for star wars fic or drabble :)


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